


My Boy

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Branding, College Aged!Malcolm, Forcible compulsion, Grabbing of the dick through clothes, Illegal Confinement, Illegal Medical Practices, Incest, It's what happens when your father is a serial killer, Knife Play? Technically?, M/M, Martin Whitly is a control freak, Not so Idle Threats, Parent-Child Incest, Reminders, Shank Play?, Torture, Whitlycest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29339355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: Malcolm's changed his last name. Martin seeks to remind his son who his father is.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	My Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of a plot bunny I threw into the PSon Trash Server and umm... the idea wouldn't leave my brain. So I'm posting it before I complete my taxes. You know. As you do.

“Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm,” Martin tutted as he looked down at his eldest (and arguably, favorite) child, who was currently tied down to the operating table that was in his cell. “When are you going to learn that you’re never going to be something that you’re not?” 

Malcolm struggled against his restraints, and Martin eyed him with the pitying, patronizing expression that fathers tended to have when their sons did something that they didn’t approve of. “I must say,” he continued, smiling as Malcolm attempted to glare at his father, “You did do something right with your new last name.” He surveyed his tool. He had made a cruel scalpel out of a toothbrush, had hidden it so it wouldn’t be caught by officers doing cell searches. “You  _ are  _ a bright boy, Malcolm.” 

The Harvard attendee attempted to spit the gag out of his mouth, fury gleaming in his eyes. 

“Oh, relax,” Martin soothed, removing an alcohol wipe from the pocket of his shirt and wiping Malcolm’s forearm down with it. His right one, so he’d have to see it unless he was wearing long sleeves. “You knew I’d do something like this. I tend to be very careful about my boy.” 

Malcolm flinched from the pet name. 

“And here’s the thing, Malcolm. No matter what you do, no matter where you go, I will always find out. You’re  _ mine,  _ Malcolm Winston Whitly.” 

Malcolm shook his head, eyes widening now in slight fear as Martin brandished the makeshift scalpel. 

“Relax, Malcolm,” Martin murmured, leaning down and kissing Malcolm’s forehead tenderly. “This is just to be a reminder that you’re mine, and you will always  _ be  _ mine.” 

Malcolm whimpered behind the gag, obviously pleading with Martin to not do whatever Martin was going to do. Then again, his son had a flair for the dramatics. He definitely got that from Jessica. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” he reassured Malcolm. “If I had wanted to, you’d be dead already.” There was no need for the verbal reminder, but Martin felt like he had to give it anyways. Another way to pound it into Malcolm’s head. Martin held life or death over him, even incarcerated. 

“Now, do your best not to move,” Martin warned as he gently set the scalpel to skin. “I’d prefer to hear you scream for real, but, well, we can’t let the officers know what I’m doing to my boy.”

Malcolm whimpered and screwed his eyes shut as Martin began his arduous task. 

The first incision near the younger Whitly’s elbow made Malcolm’s legs weakly kick as he whined minutely, his body trembling. Martin could  _ feel  _ his son’s fear and trepidation in the little shakes he gave, but he did his best to not interfere with what his father was doing. Martin  _ did  _ notice that Malcolm was staunchly looking away from him. 

Martin had considered doing this in proper English way, of course, but the way scalpels and knives worked was going to make that very difficult, so he had almost no choice but to do capital letters. It would make more of a statement, anyways. 

He took his time, relishing in the soft whimpers and cries from his boy and the thin trails of blood that were appearing as he carved away into Malcolm’s skin, effectively branding him. He went over his work a few times, making sure that it would  _ sink in  _ to Malcolm and to everyone who knew Malcolm who’s son Malcolm was. He wasn’t Gil Arroyo’s, much as the boy had adopted him. It wasn’t that one professor at Remington’s, nor was it any of Malcolm’s Harvard professors. Nor was it any man that Jessica may or may not have brought home as potential lovers. 

It was him, Dr. Martin Whitly. 

“There we go, I think it’s done,” Martin said after a solid hour. He leaned back to admire his handiwork and smirked as he saw “WHITLY” carved into Malcolm’s skin, blood pooling in the lines and making a stark contrast to Malcolm’s fair complexion. “I think you need to be out in the sun more, my boy,” he said. He cleaned the toothbrush and replaced it in his hiding spot before using bandages that he had pilfered from the infirmary and patching Malcolm up. “Make sure that you keep this clean, now,” he warned. “I would hate for it to get infected. Do you understand?” 

Malcolm didn’t reply, a tick in his jaw the only movement. 

“Oh, my boy,” Martin purred, leaning in and kissing the younger man’s cheek. “Don’t be mad at me. It had to be done, sooner rather than later. You and I both know that.” 

Malcolm still didn’t respond. 

Martin finished wrapping the wound and released Malcolm. He hid the makeshift restraints and removed the sock he had used as a gag. “There we are, my boy. Good as new.” 

“I hate you,” Malcolm whispered. 

“How about I make it up to you, hmm?” Martin asked, reaching down and rubbing at the front of Malcolm’s slacks. He wasn’t surprised to feel that Malcolm was hard. He  _ was  _ his son, after all. 

“Dad-” 

“Shh,” Martin whispered, still caressing the hardened length hidden away by silk and cashmere. “Don’t speak right now.” He kissed Malcolm sweetly. “Let me make you feel good for being so good for me. You were such a good boy for me, Malcolm. My good boy.” 

Praise was Malcolm’s weakness. Always had been, always will be. 

“Dad, please don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t want to have to walk out there with- with- with-” 

“With what?” Martin breathed. “Your arm in bandages from being reminded of who you are and where you come from and your boxers filled with cum from dear ol’ Dad rubbing one out for you?” 

Malcolm turned red and shifted, trying to evade Martin’s hand. 

“None of that now, my boy,” Martin warned. “You will take this, and you will like this, or our next visit won’t be so pleasant, will it be, my boy?” 

Malcolm swallowed and shook his head. “Yes, Sir,” and Martin knew that he had Malcolm right where he wanted him. 

At his mercy, under his control. 

“That’s my boy.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell
> 
> Twitter: @Alendra_Dragon
> 
> TikTok: @officerlucifer
> 
> Comments and Kudos are Shiny!!


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